Music by burnt ears she cried
Had I not the wherewithal to desist
thus I followed; oh, I followed
her song into the hallway, and the
silhouettes on the walls, they danced
to the echo of my footsteps against the stone
and sang the whispers of the torches’ flames.
Adieu—said I to my departing companions
as I sank into the steps, foot by foot
The notes, delicate as they, twisted in the air
so generously and allowed me to lean upon them
for support as I climbed
and climbed
and climbed. Such enchantment!—
Into a grand hall was I led, with diamonds hanging
and candles flickering, in circles, in circles
but the other beauties in the room were dead
their heads wasted away from thirst and age
with their petals mourning below the tombs
I saw her at the piano, its polished sheen alight
and received quite a fright when her countenance
became and arrived before my eyes
for she was young and she was old at the same
whilst the weariness in her breath never changed.
Her hands were pale and frail
yet her fingers retained their gay diligence
and jumped and jumped from key to key
I was delirious; and implored to her
Please—I’ve been caught—mightn’t you stop
the music now?
A laugh!—from myself or from her, or from whoever
then; Forgive me—said she,
her face turned away—I wish I could
and continued thereon her eternal song.
So I sat, in the arms of her serenade
when a three count rest provided me the chance
to ask why could not she pause—
She proclaimed her certainty in stance
that if she stopped, as would everything else
Her life was the song she played
the song she played was her life
so how could she allow herself the cessation?
The diamonds hung and the candles flickered
Spoke I, and wondered why she found it to be sure—
“A feeling?
An omen? Sense?”
Oh, she simply knew, from
the tumbling she felt within her stomach
and the lump in her throat
It made it hard to breathe, she said
My pity clouded my sensibility as I felt—
but when I asked her name, and she remembered not
the fog dispersed from thought.
“Then why continue?” I cried,
“If you have not even an identity, a life!”
And I leapt from my seat in the audience
And I pried her fingers away, away from her canvas.
The diamonds hung
the candles flickered
and a subtle silence cloaked the realization
until replaced by her lamentations of an existence forgone.
Lullaby For My Dove
Of all surrounding thicket thy choice o’ lonesome dwelling
amongst chimney’s red bricks once felled and left; a tall Room, dark—
where light has lost potency to scatter, and you now Wild,
beating with fractured wing, claws curled, firm against heaving breast
Be pardoned now, in somnolence blest
as I fashion this vacant cage for nest.
A dove’s lily-white down is Its signature, voiceless song
feathers alight yet beyond metal bars makes but debris
The drapes are drawn, senses drown, and silence holds that there be
naught save the creaks from your sullen throat; O Hush, so kindly—
I’ll compose a lullaby most sweet
So stifle noisy grievance for my amity.
And I sing and I sing and you quiet, with the rhythmic drumming
o' the generous rain who feeds so endlessly the white lilies upon the sill
Diamond chandeliers drape o'er musty air and the scent o' chamomile makes easy way
whilst sun rays remain at bay— Our home is shadowed; the dust sleeps unseen.
Now three weeks shared, I see you’ve healed, Delightful, we ought celebrate your
security sealed; Our window is open, and your head bobs, eager, at it
Look, today’s blossoms have blushing faces, limp, wet, but they've not tears
Lay in my lap — perch against my neck — accompany me one last sit
Ah, a draft— warm zephyr that kisses bitter, chills the lips
and ruffles that ivory cape as were a sigh. Do you still long for Out?
then you haven't been In long enough.
—O, ‘tis a shame, love, I’ve plucked out a blood feather, how
Colorful the crimson is against thy white! You’ve stained my hands.
Do forgive these nervous fingers — ‘twas an accident,
this anxiety; but Foresight, I praise thee, I’ve bandages a-handy
and our Lullaby, three past weeks and forevermore, leave not me lonely
Worry not my dearest, you needn’t fly away in such state
I’ll make you beautiful again, so stay a week longer, my dove, won’t you?
RGS Journal 